


A Piece of Sky

by drabbleandfluff



Category: Tiger & Bunny
Genre: Auto-erotic asphyxia, Gen, Imagery that may be triggering including: hanging and suffocation, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-12
Updated: 2014-04-12
Packaged: 2018-01-18 23:30:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1446937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drabbleandfluff/pseuds/drabbleandfluff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Keith chases after an experience he would do well enough to leave alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Piece of Sky

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Please read the warnings carefully. In no way do I advocate this dangerous practice, which can be lethal, even when preformed under the most carefully thought out circumstances. This is a work of fan-fiction, many of the thoughts and emotions are completely romanticized and embellished, and are not to be taken as accurate regarding this type of sexual play. Solo auto-erotic asphyxia is extremely risky and has led to fatalities.
> 
> A/N2: There are many beautiful fan-arts of Keith/ Sky High hanging from chains high above the city after his loss to Jake. Many of these also interpret him with wings and portray him as a 'fallen angel'. I've used those as inspiration for this fic.

 

The human body can survive harm without oxygen an average of three minutes, give or take; dependent upon circumstances. Yet even for a man like himself, a man with the very command of the wind in his blood, _at his fingertips,_ Keith hesitates.

It's been several months since the Hero's fight with Jake Martinez. Since the day he'd been so thoroughly beaten down, unable to lay even a single blow upon the powerful, _dually_ gifted NEXT. He doesn't even remember being hoisted in chains high above the city, to be left hanging by his arms in a grotesque parody of crucifixion-- the mocking subversion of his title-- 'King of Heroes'-- not lost on even his simple-minded naïveté.

Keith knows he should've taken umbrage at that treatment-- that he should carry around a lingering sense of impotent rage at having been outclassed, then ridiculed, by an insane man. Insane man _and woman._ But the reality is-- it's just not like him to hold a grudge.

 

Instead, Keith realizes that what he _really_ wants, is to experience it all.  Again.

That sensation of being helplessly hung up.  Suspended.

Keith remembers how the solid weight of his own body had betrayed him, pressed him down against his diaphragm-- how each additional hour of hanging there had only magnified his inability to draw breath. He remembers the numbness of being choked by his helmet, as its edges had dug deep into the sides of his neck.

He remembers the slow onset of dizziness due to hypoxia; the panic that had set in at the thought of blacking out thousands of feet in the air without his jet-pack strapped onto his back.

But most of all, Keith also remembers how his cock had swelled. How it had risen up, thick and hot, with his declining ability to suck in air… how that very same panic had given over into exhilaration-- _of a staggering euphoria_ in the drawn out moments before his world had faded to black. He'd felt himself shift into a swiftly agonizing arousal, how his body had burned and _wanted_ … how each successive failure in simply _breathing_ , had felt so wrongly thrilling.

Keith's been chasing after that high ever since.

 

He's tried placing a plastic bag over his head to simulate suffocation. He's even tried latching John's collar around his neck; as tight as it would go, to create that feeling of being choked. On his back, on his bed; neither had made jerking off any more satisfying.

It was then Keith had realized, lying on cloyingly sticky sheets, still frustrated and tense; it was the hanging that had done it.

 

That what he needs (craves) is the sensation of his mind being incrementally smothered while suspended in mid-air. He needs that unforgiving grip around his neck, the squeeze-compression upon his carotid arteries to block the blood flow to his brain. That he needs to feel his lungs strain as a consequence of his trachea being crushed- he wants to _fight for breath_ , wants to know what it feels like to _hunger_.

Just thinking about it makes him breathe harder, faster.

 

He's rigged his workout room with a high bar, as it already had a high ceiling to begin with. He tells himself that he'd set it high off the ground for pull ups; but Keith also knows that if he hung a short rope over the bar, he'd still not be able to reach the floor.

He throws that rope over the bar now.

A sharp prickly sensation edges up Keith's spine, a heightened awareness, and he starts to sweat; his heartbeat climbing up into his throat. He knows. He knows what he's doing. Going to do. Wants it. He's wanted this for months now… His failure in finding an adequate substitute has only spurred him on, _to_ _get it right_ , finally.

Keith toes the short step stool over beneath the bar and steps up. He ties the soft rope off, making sure the knot won't slip.

He licks lips gone dry. His focus is sharp; the muscles in his arms and thighs tense in anticipation. Every beat of his heart is thunder in his ears. It's not unlike the feeling he gets after he finishes his daily three mile run on the treadmill-- except he hasn't done anything this morning but take a shower.

Clad only in thin white boxers, Keith bends and pulls them down off his hips in one quick motion, kicking them over to the side with an errant flick of his ankle.  His flushed and aching cock bounces up and slaps him in the abdomen and he grunts with the sparks it ignites along his skin.  He thinks he's been hard since he got out of the shower twenty minutes ago; when he decided today would be the day.

He takes a deep gulp of air. And then one more.

 

Swallowing, he ducks his head _into the loop_ he's made in the silk rope and tightens it; snugly around his neck. Keith fingers the rope, adjusts it to where it needs to be. His knuckles brush against his thrumming pulse-- at least he knows he won't mess up the placement.  He starts to pant, hot breaths pushing past his lips in anticipation.

Keith then moves both his hands down his neck, fingertips palpating, caressing (scratching at) his own skin. He runs his palms over his collarbone, the muscles of his chest. He pushes out against his own hands, filling his lungs once again with precious air; plucking and pinching with blunted fingernails over his hardened nipples. He groans softly, teasing himself with slow movements down his torso to where he wants his hands to be.

He's been on edge for a while now, and knowing he's finally going to do what he's desired for in his secreted dreams, keeps Keith aware of how fast this could be for him. And it should be. _Three minutes_ … is all he gives himself.

He reminds himself again, to snap his fingers as he's practiced; to cut the rope after he's done.

At long last, Keith reaches down and wraps his fingers around his turgid erection. He hisses with the shock of how _hard_ he already is; the heated flesh twitching in his hand with first contact. Basking in the unique pleasure those first tugs to his cock produce, Keith's lips break wide, curling upwards at the corners. His bright blue eyes roll back, swimming in their sockets, eyelids drifting closed without effort. His hips thrust forward into his hand; and he gasps.  It is _so perfect_. _So good._

He may not even make it past a single minute.

 

Keith vaguely wonders if he should get some lube, but his cock spits into his hand with another squeeze; a copious spill of musk and slick. More than enough.

Without another thought Keith opens his eyes, tips his head up a fraction, and steps forward; pushing the stool over with the ball of his foot.

And it is like free fall.

The downward force very nearly undoes him.

Keith's hands move quickly, _greedily_ \-- pumping, _pumping_. His dick is heavy; _so responsive_. It throbs magnificently in his grip-- forces his head back with every stroke, dropping his jaw open in an opus of rapture.

Another burst of adrenaline floods into his body; burns a bright path up his spine. He cries out at the glory of it.

He tries to breathe in-- Keith's chest starts to work furiously to pull in air, but nothing can get past the silk stricture around his neck. Heat crashes over him, _through him_ , like a tidal wave as he starts to lose focus.

(it's only been thirty seconds...)

His vision telescopes inward as bright spots of green-purple- _white_ explode within his eyes; inside his head. He stares unseeing toward the ceiling; crystal-clear eyes widening. Those blue irises start to cloud and burn-- he cannot _see_ , so he does not blink as his eyes begin to water. Freely, the water gathers at the corners until gravity and momentum force them to break off and trail down his flushed cheeks.

His tongue licks into the air searching; his drying throat gasping desperately for _nourishment._ The muscles in his neck protest. He makes no sound, _can't make any sound_ ; other than soft short truncated grunts timed to the pull of his hand.

(a minute.... a minute and a half...)

Keith feels it deep inside- the surge building higher, higher; until it is _painful._   Like he is being burned alive-- every muscle in his body screaming for relief; his mind overwhelmed by the crushing ecstasy of oxygen starvation.  Growing hotter and blooming and. _Oh_.

 

(two and a half... three...)

 

 _It is then--_ everything whites out-- _he feels… Nothing._

_Everything._

_Pure light._

_It wraps around him and holds him. Promises epiphany. Salvation. Infuses him within and throughout._

 

His hand clamps down _hard_ over his dick as he tips over the edge.

Every muscle goes taut-- Keith spasms until he is bent at an incredible angle, bowing backwards fighting gravity as his legs jerk outward with the force of his orgasm. He keens high; a miraculous sob wrenched raw from his throat, as jet after jet of come streaks his chest.

 

The accompanying silence of his apartment is staggering. There is no heavy breathing or satiated humming as there'd normally be in the aftermath of his masturbation. Slowly, of its own volition, Keith's body relaxes until he is hanging loose by the neck. He swings silently on the end of his rope, face flushed brutally, luridly as red as his softening cock.

His barely rational brain tells him he has just blacked out for a few seconds, and is dangerously close to making that permanent. Keith rubs two fingers together to generate a wind scythe.

As he goes under for the second time, he tries again and hopes he makes it; this time.

He falls.

 

 

 


End file.
